Digitus Cibum
by missBENNETT
Summary: "I am, and I have been for quite some time. Are you upset with me?" A series of Hannibal ficlets and drabbles. Hannigail, Hannibloom, Hannigram, and other assorted characters. Various Ratings.
1. Chapter 1

**Digitus Cibum**

Hannibal knows how easily his influence is affecting her. He can see the shift in her eyes when he speaks (choosing his words carefully and letting them roll off his cultured tongue with perfect conviction) and how at ease she is around him (her shoulders always slump so comfortably, as if the strings finally pulling her upright are being loosened). He enjoys toying with people, because it is just so easy. But with her, with little Abigail Hobbs, it's almost more satisfying. It's not manipulation; it's grooming, which is far more a noble pursuit.

"Doctor Le- um, Hannibal?" She asks one day as they sit together at his dinner table, dining upon the liver of a particulary irritating winery saleswoman ("Find it yourself, I'm underpaid as it is."). His eyes, dark as he dines, only slightly avert towards her. She isn't wearing one of those wretched scarves and her hair is pulled back. Her scar is there, glorious as ever now that she no longer fears it (his hard work has paid off).

"Yes, Abigail?" He dabs the corners of his mouth with his crisp, white hankerchief, and she swallows a visible lump in her throat (pale, beautiful skin that he sometimes imagines putting his hands on and not letting go, no matter how much she kicks and cries). Her eyes, doe-like and the brightest blue he's ever seen, peer down at her plate before catching his gaze once more.

"You're feeding me people, aren't you? Just like my Dad did."

A muscle in his face twitches (it's actually a smile). Such a smart, little thing. "I am, and have been for quite some time. Are you upset with me?"

She looks at him, her lips a tight line on her face as she looks back down at her plate. It's almost completely empty, save for the dressings on her plate that he had so elegantly layed out. She blinked, her eyelids heavy with realization.

"No. I was going to ask for seconds."

**x-x**

_I may add some more various, Hannibal-related drabbles to this. My sweet Hannigail heart was pitter-pattering today. The title translation is "Finger Food", by the way. Please review!_


	2. Chapter 2

Annabel clasped the string of heirloom pearls onto her tanned neck, settling them comfortably at the curves of her collarbones. She only ever wore them for special occassions. Her mother was coming into town, an aging hag onto her fourth husband who only came around for holidays. It would just irk her so strongly to see her beautiful only daughter wearing them when she had been passed over in Great Grandmother's will. Truly, seeing her face would be a special occasion.

She settled her raven curls into a low-sitting braid, turning from her vanity to see her husband tieing his tie as he emerged from the walk-in closet they shared. He sighed as he peered out the window. "Your brother is here. Think he'll want a loan this year, too?" Annabel rose from her seat, her blood red turtleneck matching the shade of his tie. She gently brushed his fingers away, adjusting it herself and seeing the flush rising on his cheeks already. What a saint he truly was, always putting up with her horrible relatives every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Annabel gave him a peck on the lips, quietly reminding him that it wouldn't be that bad.

"Your mother is obsessed with the idea of us giving her grandchildren. I'm getting really sick of her insinuating that it's my fault she doesn't have any rugrats to pretend to enjoy." He said a little more slowly that he would normally speak, his mind visibly preoccupied. Annabel rested his tie across the front of his white shirt.

"Well you know that I don't want children. My mother doesn't have say in our lives." He was still staring out the window, his blue eyes dark with what she assumed was tiredness. He was always tired, always working. She felt almost ungrateful for the way she dragged him into these situations on his only day off. "I'll make you a deal. This is the last Thanksgiving we'll have to deal with them, alright? We'll go on a vacation next year or something. What do you say?"

Dr. Abel Gideon smiled at his wife. "I was thinking this would be our last Thanksgiving with them as well."

**x-x**

_I love Eddie Izzard. That is all. Also, forgot the disclaimer. I don't own any of these characters, except for Annabel(ish). All rights belong to Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and the like. Please review guys!_


	3. Chapter 3

"You know, I always thought those two were fucking."

Dr. Tersey stirred his sugar and creamer into his coffee, swirling the beverage a cloudy mud color. He peered over the brim of his glasses at his collegue as she sipped her tea daintily. "Who? Lecter and Bloom?"

"Of course them. Have you seen the way she looks at him. It's positively puppy-doggish. She trails after him like he's tugging a leash on her." Dr. Ellison furrowed her thick black eyebrows in annoyance (or jealousy, in Dr. Tersey's professional opinion) and set her cup down on the counter of the break room. "He's got her handling all those Ph.D candidates for him, like she's a secretary or something."

"I hear he has her for dinner regularly," Dr. Tersey interjected quietly, the steam from his cup tickling the ends of his graying moustache. Dr. Ellison made a harrumphing sound.

"Yeah, I'll bet. He gives her dinner and she gives him a show."

Dark, slitted eyes watched the backs of the two doctors from the doorway. What nasty, inconsiderate things he frequently overheard about Alana Bloom. It made his fingers twitch. He cleared his throat more loudly than usual, beckoning his startled and less- than-esteemed collegues to turn. Dr. Ellison's face flushed red. "Dr. Lecter! I'm beginning to think we should put a bell on you, the way you sneak up on us all like that."

A small tug at the corner of his mouth upturned his lips in a small smile. "Dr. Ellison, I seem to have misplaced your business card upon my last referral. Might I bother you for another?"

**x-x**

_I own Dr. Ellison and Dr. Tersey, and that's about it. Please review, guys!_


	4. Chapter 4

He knew that Will was no fool.

He knew that, eventually, no matter how careful he was, Will Graham would discover his dark little secret. That trainee that Jack had sent, that intelligent young woman who happened upon him so conviently, had found him almost easily. Will would be no different. But at least, he mused privately to himself, someone worthy of capturing him would do the deed. Will had a gift, much like Hannibal himself, although he carried it upon himself much differently. It weighed on him, like a boulder, whereas Hannibal felt light as a feather. But Will was young and unguided, and he would learn. He would be worthy, eventually."

"I have brought you breakfast. You cannot expect a stellar performance at work when you start your day eating a slice of dry toast. I won't allow it." His smile is congenial as he stands in Will's doorway, dogs paying him no mind as he hands Will the clear tupperware container. Blue eyes sparkle behind thin-rimmed spectacle, and Will smiles back politely.

"Are you my keeper now, Doctor Lecter?"

A smirk. "Something of the sort."


	5. Chapter 5

Abigail didn't know why the dreams refused to stop, but she wished to hell they would.

She couldn't keep waking up like this, soaked in sweat with a hard-panging heart pounding against her ribcage. She hated this, the confusion, the guilt. She could never look Dr. Lecter in the eye (those dark, almost red-tinted eyes), or Will Graham for that matter, once she saw them after those dreams.

"Come here, Abigail," He father would whisper in her dreams, and take her in his embrace, something that used to feel safe, and kiss her deeply. She'd open her eyes and look up at him, and his face would be different: High, sharp cheekbones, thin lips against hers, and those eyes it almost hurt to stare into for too long. Dr. Lecter would end their intimate moment, handing her a knife with a short upturn of his lips. "Come, we must prepare for dinner."

A stag would stomp the brittle leaves behind her, and Will Graham's head would appear on a platter at her old dinner table as her mentor would loom over it with the elegant silverware from his own home in his hands, hungry and waiting. He looked positively animalistic, a way she never imagined he would look in reality. That was how she knew it was a dream.

The crazy around her was catching, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could pretend it wasn't.


	6. Chapter 6

Will Graham's lecture hall was emptying as Dr. Lecter and Jack Crawford stood in the entrance way, the latter holding a case file in his steely grip. Will's back was turned, shuffling some of his research work on his desk as he preparedto leave, unaware that there was company awaiting him. Dr. Lecter watching his back curiously, wondering if his gaze was burning holes into the other man's back the way her hoped they did.

He felt a nudge into his lean, broad arm as the students bustled out, and he couldn't help but feel the flash of irritation that crossed through him at the blatant rudeness of the action. But he could understand: Everyone hurrying out at the same time, it was understandable, and typically expected, to be bumped around in a group of people. The young woman with the flash of auburn hair's rudeness would be forgiven today.

"Will," He heard Jack pipe up beside him, and the two approached their now turned collegue.

Outside the entrance way, the young woman with auburn hair hugged her books to her chest, glancing up and down the hallway.

"Clarice!"

She glanced back down the hallway to her left where she heard her name called. Her friend, dark-skinned with pulled back black hair smiled at her as she looped arms with her. "There you are, I was beginning to think you ditched out or something."

"Ardelia, you know I could never skip class. Especially not one as important as Will Graham's."


	7. Chapter 7

Garrett Jacob Hobbs wakes up in the morning and looks at his bedside clock. The red numbers flash six-fifty-seven, and he begrudges the lousy night's sleep he had. He tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling, but lately, he was used to restless nights.

He goes about his morning as usual: Goes in the kitchen and gets a drink of water, taking a moment to splash some on his face to fight his increasing grogginess. His back aches, like usual, and he pets his dog on the head before meandering to the bathroom. He looks at his face, aging more and more every day, before opening the medicine cabinet to grab his toothbrush.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs shuts the cabinet and sees Will Graham looking back at him. He looks just as tired and even more unhappy. He pulls his glasses out of his pocket and puts them on his face.

"You need to go away," Will Graham tells his reflection, but instead it only smiles back.

**x-x**

_I'm taking prompts now, if anyone's interested. PM me for details!_


	8. Chapter 8

It's Alana's birthday, and he offers to throw her a dinner party in celebration. She is still young and learning, and she flushes a light pink at the prospect. She's been under his tutelage for only a few months, and there's something about her he quite likes."As friends, of course." She makes the statement, but it rings more as a question to his well-trained ears.

"Of course. Consider it the first of many dinner parties you may attend at my house. I have numerous aqquaintances in the medical community that I entertain." He informs her as he opens the doorway to his office and adjusts his tie.

"Sounds good to me, Doctor."

"Please, call me Hannibal."

She comes over and hob-knobs with surgeons and psyhciatrists many years ahead of her, and she decides this friendship with Hannibal Lecter will be very beneficial. She briefly considers the romantic liasion that everyone at works assumes they're conducting, but decides that mixing business with pleasure would be improper. She leans against the kitchen counter with a fine wine she has no taste for in her hand. "I really apprieciate this, Hannibal. You've been very welcoming to me at the practice."

"Not at all. You deserve every courtesy offered."

She smiles at him, glancing down at the bottle in her hand. "Would it be rude to now point out that I'm not a wine drinker?"

He glances up only slightly from the carving board before him, and nods slightly. "I'll make note of it. As I said before, I intend to have you over many more times for dinner."

Alana smiles at him, setting the bottle on the counter. "Well, I'll be glad to be here. And I'll bring my own beer next time."

"No need. I'll provide it myself."

She smiles, and the way he smirks back at her with that secretive, seductive glint in his dark eyes, she reconsiders that no affair thought that she had earlier.


	9. Chapter 9

Miriam Lass sat at the bistro's thin metal table out on the patio, her sandy hair tied back in a ponytail and sunglasses covering her wide blue eyes. Her coffee was getting cold and the stacks of files that sat in her satchel were screaming at her to give it up, that it was time to get to work. But she continued to wait.

"Hey," A quiet voice garnered her attention, and Miriam turned to glance at the curvaceous woman that greeted her. She had legs for days and an hourglass figure, but her voice was quiet as a churchmouse. A vision in fitted khakis and a sky blue tank top, she rested her coat on the chair behind her and smiled at Miriam. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be late. Serratos cornered my in the gun range and told me my shot was off."

"Yeah? I'm sure he was happy to help you line it up," Miriam said with a joking smile, and the woman sitting with her gave a rather unladylike snort and tossed her dark red hair over her shoulder.

"Oh yeah, you know it. So how's your Ripper thing-"

"Shhh! It's not some big thing we're blabbing to everyone. You aren't even supposed to know about it, remember?" Miriam chastised her, her sunglasses drooping down the brim of her nose as she glared across the table at her companion. She mumbled a brief 'sorry', and Miriam lifted her bag to her lap. "I've got files on all these doctors to go through. Some are still practicing, some aren't, but I've got appointments to interview some of them tonight."

"I hope you don't get too many doors slammed in your face. Facial bruises aren't cute, you know."

Miriam smirked playfully. "If I do, will you play doctor for me?" Her companion smiled affectionately, sliding her hand across the tabletop to rest on Miriam's own outstretched arm.

"Of course. But you better get back to it. You looks like you've got a lot on your plate."

Miriam sighed and got up from her seat. "Yeah, I know. My first stop is a psychiatrist's office. Maybe I'll get some much-needed therapy while I'm there." She stopped beside the redhead, who looked at her expectantly with a smile stretched across her cupid's bow lips. Miriam pressed her lips against hers very gently, very quickly, and made her way to the bistro gate. "See you at home, Rose."

"Yeah, good luck, Mir."


	10. Chapter 10

Alana Bloom attracted psychopaths. She knew this to be true.

As a teenager, she walked past the same unkempt brick house to and from school everyday, and talked to Mr. Mulhaney that lived there. He was constantly in his flower beds, meticulously pruning and weeding. She always said hello and complimented him on his craft, and he'd occassionally let her pluck a select daffodil and invite her over for sweet tea on the front porch. They'd talk about life, about the stress of school and figuring out who you are, and his company consumed her for an entire summer until the police told her he was using dead women as fertilizer.

Dr. Abel Gideon had made a point to tell her that she looked like his deceased wife, with her long black locks and serene face, and what a pleasant change of scenery it was from the drab walls he was now accustomed to. He was curt and rather rude with everyone else who came to question him, talk to him, use him for their thesis. But Dr. Bloom, in his own words, was "something special, indeed."

Hannibal Lecter didn't eat her. No, he was in fact rather fond of her, but it wasn't as if the thought never crosssed his mind. Some thoughts about him crossed her mind rather secretly as well, like whether he was as uptight in bed as he appeared in every day life. But, really, she didn't much suspect him to be the people-eating type. She'd dined at his house enough to send her vomiting for days when she learned the truth.

Sometimes, she wondered later in life, if that was why Will Graham was drawn to her as well.


	11. Chapter 11

Will sat on the couch when a familiar weight beside him jostled him, and he looked over at Oliver and smiled halfheartedly. The dog's dark brown eyes were needy, desiring the most basic of needs: love. Dogs were so simple, so easy. Will reached over and stroked the soft fur behind Oliver's floppy ears, and the dog dropped his head down on Will's lap.

This was how it had all started. He had gotten Oliver a few years back when an old up the road neighbor had a heart attack. The dog had just outgrown puppyhood and was now going to be homeless, but Will had seen the sadness in the creature's eyes (but had not felt it overwhelmingly as he had with abandoned humans) and knew he had to take him home. It was company without the stress of actual company. Shortly after he noticed the strays around the area and was reminded of how lonely he was, and how lonely Oliver was but could never express it. They were drawn to Will as if he were one of them himself, an animal in a human suit. He sheparded them all in to his house one by one, and they all wore that same familiar look in their large, orb-like eyes: Pure happiness.

Seven food bowls now sat in his kitchen, slobbery and shuffled all around with bits of kibble strewn about, but Will didn't mind the mess. It was worth it to not feel so alone for a while.


	12. Chapter 12

She cuts him off in traffic, too busy chatting away on her cell phone and blaring her bubblegum pop music to notice. How rude.

He follows behind her discreetly, watching her toss her toffee -colored ponytail over he shoulder as she bobs her head long with the music and tosses her phone over into her passenger seat. She looks to be about twenty-six, twenty-seven. Old enough to know better but young enough to only be concerned with herself. Her emerald green Grand Prix turns down a suburban street, and slowly, skillfully, he falls back until she is out of sight. He catches the tail end of her car pulling into a paved driveway of a two-story brick house. It looks old, a lone original home standing in a lot filled with identical homes brought in on trailers. Hannibal watches her, commiting her lisence plate number to memory as he halts behind a black convertable parked alongside the sidewalk.

She flounces out of her car, and he notices her lean frame and how easy it would be to slice into her abdomen. A shorter woman comes out the front door, same color hair but a more full frame. She shouts her daughter's name, her voice shrill with excitement:

"Mischa! You're home! Oh my God, your father has been pacing the-"

But he needn't hear anymore. Egragious rudeness is ignored, just this once.

**x-x**

_Big thanks to all my reviewers: Lyledebeast, Hannibal Hannah, Fannibal, ShadowPhoenix15, Frolicking Through Fandoms, Witchy Bee, DOUBL3MOB1US, and Miss Savvy (who is easily my favorite writer of the fandom, big yays for Devour!) You guys are all totally awesome, anonymous and otherwise. I apprieciate the support! XOXO_


	13. Chapter 13

He thinks that, were he the Chesapeake Ripper, he would remove her heart and keep it for himself. It seemed like she wasn't the type to just give it to anyone, so in her death, he would take it. He stands outside of her window and watches her, long coal-colored curls falling over her shoulders as she sorts through her files. Files about him, he is vain enough to assume.

She is calculating and intelligent, much like Annabel had been before he butchered her and his godforsaken in-laws. She had been flirtatious, with short skirts and smoky eyes and salacious words, and once they were married she took advantage of her power of him. She made him into a man who supported her fully, and a man who was made to feel guilty for doing so at the same time. Abel Gideon has let so many people make him into so many different men, and he's not totally sure what Abel Gideon would do if he were to entrude on Alana Bloom's quiet, though heavily guarded, evening.

He thinks maybe he would offer her a drink and compliment her on her bang-up evaluation of his mental state, and maybe he would leave her tongue intact because he'd quite like to taste it. But really, he wants to slice her throat and see if she looks just as shocked and appalled as Annabel did. He's really, truly curious.

But Will Graham appears behind him, and he knows he won't be able to wonder much longer.


	14. Chapter 14

He thinks about those sad, blue eyes as he sits with Dr. Du Maurier and swallows peices of her with slow, savory bites.

Hannibal had silently mourned the loss of the one he considered his daughter, but at the same time, feels unsatisfactory in her passing. He didn't honor her the way he was sure she would have liked him to; he did not use every part of her. He'd romanced the idea of how delicious those round, baby fat cheeks would taste, salted by her unwilling tears, but bone and hair were of little interest to him. He had considered taking a strand of her hair to keep for himself, to hang in his kitchen in memorium, but decided that the timing was inopportune.

It was unfortunate that she had reacted the way she had. A small, secret part of him had hoped she would embrace him, understand what she was made for. She could have lived, with him, together. Two of a kind, peas in a pod She could have hidden out somewhere safe while he healed her wounds (her ear served a higher purpose, which she would understand) and he would have delighted her with the turn out of his little game. He would groom her to be much more than a pawn, but a player instead, and a skilled one at that. But it was not to be.

Instead, he would savor her taste, and carry it with him always.

**x-x**

**I really should be working on my novel instead of this, but I feel like I've seriously cheated all of you lovely readers by not updating since these last two episodes! I've got some other pieces in my head as well. I'll try to post them soon!**


	15. Chapter 15

"Winston! I mean, oh... shit."

Alana pinched the brim of her nose as she uttered her last whispered word beneath her breath. The scruffy mutt, one ear arched up upon hearing his name wrongfully called, stepped beside Alana's denim clad leg, looking at her expectantly. She sighed. "I meant Oliver. Sorry, Winston."

The bulldog looked at her guiltily, head hanging low as he stood beside the mangled pillow that used to reside on her couch. Alana blinked, feeling her chest swell disappointedly. The disappointment was a combination of many things: Her slowly dilapidating living room, her inability to keep the pitiful creatures' names straight, the fact that their owner was no longer there to keep them in check. They loved Will; they were his companions. She was not.

"I understand that you're a dog and you can't tell me how much you want to be home instead of here, but tearing up my furniture isn't going to make me take you back. There's nothing there right now."

Winston layed down suddenly, his furry chin on the top of her foot. His eyes, dark and wide and questioning, looked up at her as a sad whine escaped him. Alana felt her lips tighten.

"I know, Winston. I miss him, too."

**x-x**

**I mentioned Oliver in a previous chapter about Will's collection of dogs and wanted to specify that he wasn't Winston lol. That was pretty much the basis of this chapter. I'd also like to add: You all are so awesome! I've gotten such nice feedback from this and so many faves and follows! I can't tell you how grateful I am!**


	16. Chapter 16

She is beautiful and lithe, and her eyes echo something he has never seen but in his own reflection in the mirror. She is only three years younger than him, yet the judiciousness written in shallow creases across her angular face is that of someone who has lived a thousand lives, and he is quite endeared to her old soul quality.

He asks her to dinner one night, and she scrutinizes him with the sharp blue gaze of a woman who has loved and lost. He notes this, an addendum to the list that has begun growing to remind him what he expressions he simply must cause to grace her features again. There is well-masked agony in her eyes, and she is guarded, but she accepts.

"I do hope that you are not vegetarian, Dr. Du Maurier."

"Not in the slightest, Dr. Lecter."

They make love that night, not quite making it to his bedroom, but the floor of his study is quite fine by her. He suspects this is not the first time she has done so in her furor, mussing his quaffed hair with sharp, unpolished fingernails. She is an animal, a creature, a beast; he knows that she sees these qualities in him, and in no one else.

He realizes that she may, perhaps, see his reflection in her mirror as well.

**x-x**

_I just rewatched the finale and realized that I haven't written anything about Bedelia Du Maurier yet. She's quite interestingm actually; I'd love to see her and Alana in a room together. Don't worry, faithful readers, I still have lots planned for Digitus Cibum (:_


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